The Prince and the Pirate
by bayumlikedayum
Summary: Luke is sent to Alderaan and Leia is sent to Tatooine. Gender-bent Han. Luke/Hana.
1. The Beginning

**A/N:** This story is built off of a couple thoughts and assumptions: 1) Luke is blond in New Hope because of the Tatooine suns and his natural hair color is much darker, similar to Anakin. 2) There is some measure of sexism in the portrayal of Leia always being irritated. She must be a much more skilled diplomat to be so highly regarded by her people and the Rebellion. She also wasn't given enough credit for the trauma she must've gone through watching her entire planet be destroyed. 3) Luke would've learned Leia's same skill set of diplomacy, although he'd be different from Leia because they as people are different.

However, besides that, a lot of the observations I make about the gender-bent characters are taken from my perspective on the films and the original characters.

…

 **The Beginning**

It begins the same way these things usually do — unexpectedly. She keeps finding herself looking at him, with his icy blue eyes and dark brown hair, his dimpled chin and his firm mouth. She wonders if he's actually ice, or if there's fire burning under his skin, and what he must be thinking of the loss of his planet, of his family.

She can't see it on the outside.

She pricks him a little with her words, watches the flames in his eyes flare up and then be tamped as he closes his eyes and breathes before he answers. She has a theory that maybe he needs a little relief, someone to take out his frustration on, someone to let the fire out towards. He's a diplomat, a politician, and one of the most well-known figures of the Rebellion. He has a reputation to uphold. But she wears down his walls more and more and his eyes start to spark whenever he sees her.

One day, when he blows up at her, he says something along the lines of deserving more respect than she gives him. And so she takes to calling him "Your Highness."

She likes seeing the red flare up in his cheeks. He doesn't know what to do because it's the first time someone has riled him to the point of madness. There's something about her that gets under his skin and itches just under the surface.

She's the one person he's ever known he didn't have the words to describe.

And she's leaving him.

Maybe not that day, or the next, but maybe the next after that. Someday very, very soon.

She says she has a debt to pay.

He tells himself he doesn't have a problem with it, that she's an aggravation he's better off without, a distraction at best. But that doesn't change the fact that his eyes follow her when she enters the room or that sometimes he wakes up from a dream and realizes she was in there somewhere, tangled up in his conscious, smirking up at him unapologetically. For some reason, he isn't mad at her in his dreams.

He expects her to leave him. Everyone else is gone anyway. Why not her too.

Sometimes _it_ hits him all over again, especially when he's sleeping, and then he's left shaking and sobbing in the dark. There will never be another Old Alderaanian born in the galaxy, never be another ceremony held in the palace where he was raised, never another so many things he can't breathe whenever he thinks about it or remembers _it_ or those ceremonies or—

He tries to hide his fatigue but it apparently doesn't work very well. Mon Mothma tells him to talk to someone, anyone, and he tells her that he is, but he stays silent regardless. And somehow it continues to get worse. He tries not to let himself think about it while they're evacuating Yavin; he tells himself there are more important things to do than let himself be affected, that he has to be strong, that the Alliance needs him strong. He can't collapse until they're safe.

Dodonna is the driving force behind the evacuation after the Battle of Yavin. It's true they've just dealt a massive blow to the Empire by destroying their master weapon, but that doesn't change the fact that now the Empire knows where they're stationed. An attack is coming eventually, probably soon.

Luke keeps seeing Leia wandering around the base looking lost. She hasn't found her place yet; it seems like she thought the victory over the Death Star would cripple the Empire and actually defeat them once and for all. And now, realizing she knows very little about the operations of this band of rebels she's fallen into, she's taking a back seat and letting everyone else direct her around. It's a small feeling, to expect to be praised and recognized as a hero, and then to be congratulated for barely a day before the focus is turned elsewhere, before they're frantically running around and fleeing for their lives again.

The whispers still follow her sometimes, like when she's eating alone in the mess hall or dropping by the X-Wing she's adopting as her own to work on repairs. She always feels most at home with a wrench in her hand and that's what she reverts to now, on a strange planet with a high level of humidity and a mind-boggling amount of water, part of an organization she was planning to fight against, her only company a protocol droid that keeps talking about its missing astromech companion.

She's spent her entire life staring at the sky waiting to leave a desert planet and now she's happy to have a little normalcy, a little menial labor.

Luke notices. It's his speciality; noticing, connecting personally with everyone. It's what makes him such a good diplomat. If everyone feels heard, they're more connected, more willing to commit to what he proposes.

He brings her lunch. She's smeared with grease and surprised to see him, but she smiles at him gratefully, white teeth gleaming out from a gray-smudged face. He asks her what she's working on; she says something about fixing the astromech translator for Artoo. And then he asks her how she's been doing and she's abruptly honest.

"It's been hard to find my place on base," she says.

He doesn't know very many people who will simply blurt out the truth without stopping to think about how to deliver it tactfully and in a way that will make someone else sympathetic. He knows it's probably just naivety, that this girl has been isolated for most of her life and will probably figure out why it isn't a good idea.

 **...**

He's pretty sure he isn't developing feelings for her. After all, why would he. She blusters and swaggers and brags her way through every situation. She's also started three different underground Sabaac rings on base within the month Luke's been at the new base, let alone whatever she did while he wasn't there. But that doesn't change the way his eyes go to her whenever she enters a room, like there's something there he wants to be able to look up and easily see.

Maybe her arrogance helps him feel more confident. If Hana's acting like she's fine, they're safe for the time being. He's seen her lose her swagger in the middle of a fight before; when she thinks she's close to death, she forgets her bluster.

She sees the way he looks at her, especially when she walks in a room, and she thinks she recognizes it. She's been pursued enough – and also been the pursuer enough – that she can see the way he looks at her even when he can't. She's glimpsed it when he's furious, when he's afraid, when he's tired. She sees it when he slips and forgets who he is, where he is. Even when he rages at her, sometimes almost spitting in his anger, she sees it and it makes her smile.

And she's right, to some extent. Under his irritation and aggravation, he craves her sometimes. He wonders for a moment — in the middle of a fight, when she's smirking up at him triumphantly after he's just blown his temper — what it would feel like to hold her in his arms instead of trying to stab back at her with his words.

His back is tight and rigid as he walks away.

And for some reason, it keeps happening after that.


	2. One Month

…

 **One Month**

Every time she sees him, he's always focused, intense. It's always about the next mission, the next ambush, the next rescue. His eyes flicker towards her when she enters, and for a moment she thinks she sees an awareness of her in his gaze, but then he blinks and it's gone.

It's always about the Rebellion.

It's contagious to a certain extent. Every time Hana's about to grab the few things she has scattered around base and make her way back to Tatooine, someone comes running into the control center panting with urgent news and a new mission. And every time, Hana listens to the plans these damned fool Rebels are making and knows that they have a better chance of succeeding if she comes along.

And so she goes, blaster on her hip and cocky smirk in place. She saves their asses, or at least proves useful. And every time she thinks about sitting this one out and letting a few people get killed for their stupidity, Chewie gives her the look he gave her when they were on their way out from Yavin.

"You know, buddy, for someone who owes me a life debt, you sure do have a lot of input on where we go," she mumbles, and he grunts a chuckle.

 _Sometimes I know what's best for you, little one_ , he replies, and she rolls her eyes.

"Being free of a bounty on my head is good for me," she retorts.

Chewie, in his infinite Wookiee wisdom, doesn't reply.

Then there's a moment where she's gathering her stuff to finally leave and there isn't a mission keeping her from leaving, from flying away and never looking back. No one runs in, no one needs saving.

She sees Luke in the control center as she goes to collect the debt Wedge owes her from their last game of Sabaac. There are others scattered around the room, talking quietly, working diligently, but she glimpses him standing by the navigation desk, working alone. He's leaning over the main desk, examining holocharts of remote planets to figure out their next escape route, their next mad-dash backup plan.

The Falcon needs repairs, she decides. The engine isn't sounding as smooth as it used to when it boots up. She'd have Chewie take a look with her. It wouldn't be any good to fly to Tatooine to pay off her debt and have her ship blow up on her on the way.

She could leave him to his work. Or she could give him a break, ease his mind a little bit, warm her hands on the fire that makes him work so ceaselessly.

…

It's a bad day for him. It's been a month since the Battle of Yavin, a month since The Disaster. He woke up from a restless sleep sweating last night, his back tingling with Vader's presence, gasping in a breath to scream as the sickly green beam hit Alderaan again, just as it does every night.

The holocharts keep blurring in front of his eyes no matter how much he blinks.

And then there's someone behind him.

 **...**

"Whatcha looking at, Your Highness?" She asks, walking up behind him until she's obnoxiously close, her chest almost touching his back.

He shifts away uneasily. She moves again until she's in the same position, pretending not to notice his discomfort.

"Holocharts," he says. "I'd think you'd be able to see that, even with your level of intellect."

He's feeling feisty today. Okay. She could use a good fight.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, pretending to be hurt.

"If you don't know what it means, you're even dumber than I gave you credit for just now."

He isn't even looking at her; he's dismissing her without even bothering to glance her way.

This is the real insult, she thinks. His lack of attention. Or, at least, his pretense of lack of attention. She's wearing her good shirt today, the one she happens to be wearing whenever she catches Luke staring at her.

Then again, she's been wearing this shirt a lot lately. Maybe it's losing its charm.

"Well, the least you could do is look at me while you insult me." Her voice turns low and smooth, a husky sound designed to distract.

His back stiffens. For a moment, she thinks he won't rise to her unspoken challenge, but then he turns ever so slowly, straightening to his full height until he's standing a good six inches taller than her. His eyes are the bluest she's ever seen today, his hair unusually unkempt. He's been unsuccessful in his work. She can always tell; he always looks like he's especially irritated.

"There," he says. His eyes transfix her, freeze her; for a moment, she forgets to move, to breathe. "Now I'm looking at you. Can you leave me alone now? Some of us are actually trying to work."

He turns back to the holocharts and the moment is gone; she's freed.

"You'd think you'd be grateful," she says and she's already starting to smile because she knows what his response is going to be to this next taunt. He's going to tell her that he wishes "Here I am, putting my life on the line for your Rebellion, and what do I get? Nothing but insults." She can hear him start to measure his breathing, carefully drawing in and blowing out, drawing in and blowing out, drawing in— "What does a girl have to do to get treated right around here? Actually die?"

He's silent for a moment. His fists are clenched and he's shaking and she realizes that she's gone too far this time, that this isn't what she was expecting.

"Don't play that kriffing game with me, Hana," he says, and he's deadly quiet. He spits his response through gritted teeth. "We both know why you're here. It's not to be 'treated right.' You're getting paid handsomely for the work you're doing, or at least as handsomely as we can afford. You're draining our funds – credits we need for supplies and food and everything else we don't have enough of. You don't deserve to be treated _well_ for that, or for anything you're doing here. You speak of death like you'd die the death of a hero, like all the others who've died for this cause. But you wouldn't. You stand for nothing and no one but yourself. And you would die for nothing and no one but yourself." He draws a breath. The last thing he says is so quiet, she has to strain to hear him. "So if you're looking to be treated _right_ , I think I've already helped you with that."

The room is quiet now. Everyone has left their work to listen. He's left her breathless, small. He walks away from her then and doesn't bother looking back as he leaves, intent on getting away, on continuing his work, on doing something, anything, except remember what it felt like to watch billions of people, _his_ people, be dissipated into oblivion in a single moment.

She leaves by another door, head down.

…

He wanders to the hangar bay. He finds Leia deep in the mechanical guts of her X-Wing, staring and motionless. She startles when he says her name and her eyes are wide when she finally sees him.

"I didn't hear you coming," she says, and wipes at her cheek. She's trying to hide the tears that have been flowing since long before he arrived, but he sees them and knows. He lets her hide in herself for a moment longer and pretends not to notice as he sits next to her, folding his legs.

"How are the repairs coming?" He asks.

"What?" She's confused, forgetting for the moment what she had meant to be doing. "Oh. Good. I mean, great."

There's a pause. He's thinking about _her_ again, the girl with the low-cut cream shirt and the laughing hazel eyes. Laughing at him. Laughing at death. Laughing at the whole lot of them.

"Why are you still here, Leia?" He asks. The question comes pouring out of him. It's one of the few moments he forgets his diplomacy, his training. It's a slip that a skilled tactician would read into, pry into, use to understand him better, use to their advantage. It betrays his loneliness, his sense of disillusionment in the people around him.

How can everyone carry on when his world has fallen apart, been blasted apart? How can they speak of the Alderaanian refugees in practical terms? These were his people. These _are_ his people, freshly extinguished from the galaxy. And the world is moving on. The fight is pressing forward.

"Well," Leia says slowly. "I guess it was either you or them. And it couldn't be them."

There was a side to pick in this great war, in this fight that had already extinguished a world and a half, a planet and a 'death star.'

He recognizes this black-and-white approach for what it is; innocence.

"Who'd you lose?" He asks, knowing it goes deeper than her loss of the old man, the shell of grief that had once been Obi-Wan Kenobi.

"My family," is her answer. "My whole family. My aunt and uncle."

He knows better than to speak during the pause that follows. He knows there's more coming.

"I saw their bodies burned. Our house burned. Their skeletons were still smoking when I found them." Her eyes are burning dry now, tears gone. The moments when she wants to cry the most are the moments the tears won't come. "I was too late."

The moments they do are the moments she remembers the kindness in Aunt Beru's face, the laugh wrinkles around Uncle Owen's eyes. How they were both cracked and dry from desert life, resigned to a destiny of hard work and thankless toil.

He puts his arm around her thin shoulders and she starts to shake, just as he did when Hana spoke to him the way she had.

He knows he'd been harsh to Hana, knows Hana won't understand why, knows that he'd overreacted according to the terms she'd silently set forth. They'd only been sparring. He'd taken it too far.

Leia turns to him, seeking out his warmth, and hides her face in his tunic. He isn't used to comforting; he pets her hair gently at first, stiffly, before he fully embraces her.

They recognize their own grief in each other. They'd both let down the people who were the most important to them.

…

Hana goes in search of Luke. Why, she isn't sure. Perhaps to apologize, perhaps to stand in silence and offer peace, perhaps to try to wipe away her previous words with stilted conversation.

She finds him in the hangar bay holding Leia and she hesitates before she turns away to begin searching for something, anything to do, any mission to venture, any supply run to make.

When Commander Wos'Eck approaches her with the reward for a successful mission the next day, she shakes her head and walks away.

"Put it to good use," she calls over her shoulder. "I've got enough."


End file.
